


Audi, Vide, Tace

by Paian



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: 1000-5000 Words, Aliens Make Them Do It, Anal Sex, Community: comment_fic, Episode: s03e14 Foothold, First Time, Future Fic, Happy Ending, Loneliness, M/M, Masturbation, Off-World, POV Outsider, Season/Series 04, Secrets, Telepathy, Virtual Reality, Voyeurism, vicarity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-20
Updated: 2009-03-20
Packaged: 2017-10-02 22:02:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paian/pseuds/Paian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Paul Davis has had a telepathic connection Jack O'Neill since the situation in 'Foothold.' Jack and Daniel are late returning from an offworld mission, and Paul knows why.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Audi, Vide, Tace

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt from Antares: SG-1, Major Davis, 'Jack and Daniel 2 days overdue'

### Arlington, Virginia

Colonel O'Neill and Doctor Jackson had missed their check-in twice. From his office in the Pentagon, through the telepathic connection he'd had to Colonel O'Neill since they were both hooked up to the technology of the infiltrators from P3X-118, Paul Davis learned exactly what was happening.

He'd have known two days earlier if he hadn't been too busy to daydream, too work-obsessed to heed the connection's increasingly insistent demands for attention, too determined to brutally suppress it on ethical grounds. Fifty percent of the time, he was successful in blocking it out, and forty percent of the remaining time what was coming through wasn't powerful enough to register, much less break through his resistance. But increasingly intense emanations had been battering at his mental walls for two days, and for a moment, fatigued from an all-nighter spent wrangling bureaucrats and drowsy from a tryptophan overload at lunch, he'd let his attention wander, and the full force of what was happening offworld nearly knocked him out of his chair.

After mastering the physiological responses, and overcoming the burning desire to leave work early and lock himself in his apartment alone for the duration, it was nothing to feign surprise when the telephone call came through -- Harriman alerting him to the situation, and requesting that he inform the visiting General Hammond.

Davis relayed the message, in person, with his customary mix of professional calm and humane empathy. The general was naturally concerned. His concern would elevate to grave as their gate repeatedly failed to establish a connection to PT2-822. It was in Paul Davis's power to alleviate that concern. To explain to the general that solar disturbances in the PT2-822 system were preventing the formation of a wormhole, that the disturbances would abate in a few Earth hours, and that the general's personnel would return home unharmed at that time. But doing that would require him to explain how he knew. And that, he would never do.

The colonel and Doctor Jackson were in no danger. He reassured the general as far as he was able, and took no personal affront when the general told him with strained graciousness that he hoped he was right and dismissed him with curt orders to arrange for his immediate transportation back to base. The general was still sore from the double thought-we-lost-them whammy of the replicator incidents on _Beliskner_ and the Russian sub. Davis hadn't been able to reassure him then either, and the reasons that Davis couldn't say "At least this time the colonel and Doctor Jackson are stranded together, sir" were innumerable. But at least this time the colonel and Doctor Jackson were stranded together.

A lot of generals had been curt with him in his career, and it almost always served his interests; when they were brusque they were distracted, not focused on deferential staffers, and sometimes, paradoxically, open to suggestion. In this case it helped distract _him_. This general had been curt with him before, and he'd learned a lot about how things were done around the SGC since then. He made the arrangements. He saw the general off. He cleared his remaining workload with an intense self-induced myopia. And at seventeen hundred on the dot he was out the door.

The sensations coming through from across the galaxy were so strong that unless he was intensely focused on a demanding task he couldn't block them out. He considered forgoing his ride and jogging home, but he didn't think he was capable of so much as a fast walk with the aching erection he was hiding behind the overcoat flung over the arm he held in front of him. Fortunately, it was winter; decorum would have precluded even that much modesty in summer. The bitter cold as he crossed to his waiting car did nothing to attenuate the arousal.

He fought it as the Arlington streets and houses streamed past his window. Fought both his physical responses and his emotional ones. The heartache was harder on him than the hard-on. Preoccupied with one, he lost control of the other. Clawing at the leather of the sedan's backseat as Colonel O'Neill experienced anal penetration for the first time, he came into his shorts.

He welcomed the relief. It wouldn't last long, but it would get him to his building in a functional state, and the thick wool of his coat would hide the spreading stain. A glance at the rearview mirror showed his driver intent on the traffic, not squinting back at his flushed face, and made him doubly aware of the two-way-mirror effect of the phenomenon he was experiencing. The dark room he sat in, day after day, fighting tooth and nail not to look through the glass into the lighted room of Jack O'Neill's mind.

It was midway between _Being John Malkovich_ and being a voudon loa, except that he couldn't exert any control through the connection. He was a passive rider. A gelded Goa'uld. A stealth intruder, dragged in against his will.

An infiltrator.

The link between O'Neill's mind and his didn't seem to go the other way, or manifest in anyone else who'd been attached to the mimic devices. As far as he could deduce, it was some anomalous side effect of the way they'd come around -- O'Neill first, and both of them because the aliens impersonating them had died violently -- combined with their proximity in the harnesses at the time. Something as simple as a crossed wire, maybe, or an interaction between EM fields and the neuroelectric processes of the human brain. Ever since that day, whenever his mental focus flagged -- when his thoughts wandered, when he was on the verge of sleep, when he was fatigued -- he got strobing, lightning-flash intimations of the colonel's experiences and thoughts, whatever the colonel was doing at the time. If he let go, if he let it take him, it became a magic-lantern show, the strobing flashes coming faster and faster until they blurred into a seamless virtual experience.

If he let go and let it take him, it felt as if he was really there.

If it worked the other way, Colonel O'Neill had given no indication of it. If it had worked the other way, Colonel O'Neill's mind would have registered it and Davis would have known. If it had worked the other way, they'd have wound up in an infinite feedback loop and probably both had mental breakdowns. If it had worked the other way, O'Neill would have told someone.

O'Neill hadn't told anyone. Davis hadn't told anyone. What could they do about it? Take him off active duty while they isolated him as an Area 51 test subject? They'd take O'Neill off active duty too, and probably still fail to figure it out or end it, then possibly deactivate them both permanently. The Program couldn't afford to lose O'Neill, and Davis refused to jeopardize his career over this.

Worse, they might try to use it. They might deploy him as a human receiver, pull him off the Pentagon ladder he'd been climbing and park him in a room to relay transmissions on demand. For the rest of Jack O'Neill's career as a field operative.

No fucking way.

He was duty-bound and morally bound to tell O'Neill. He should not permit this continuing invasion of privacy. But he already knew far too much. It was already far too late to come clean with the colonel.

He'd been making progress on suppressing the feed. For a while he'd stopped trying, sliding down a slippery slope of vicarity and impinging addiction, and his work had suffered, and his mental health had suffered, and he'd barely clawed his way back. He'd gritted his teeth against the impulses to tune in to the O'Neill Channel -- All O'Neill All The Time, except during the bewildering, inexplicable periods when it seemed to be the Indiana Barber Channel and he banged his head against the wall to make it stop -- and made progress on suppressing his own desire. O'Neill led a quiet, mundane life in private and spent long hours at work dealing with personnel and paperwork, all easy enough to ignore even though in truth O'Neill's office work intrigued him, and seemed, weirdly, more stealthed than his personal life. Half of his offworld deployments were equally low-key, and the peaks of adrenaline-spiking action and mortal peril came in spates that had, so far, been handleable.

This one wasn't handleable. At least not by the usual means.

With Daniel Jackson murmuring in his ear, Colonel O'Neill keening in his head, the sensations in Colonel O'Neill's body threatening to hijack and incapacitate his own, he gripped the seat until the seams groaned and his condominium building came into view.

Periodically intense solar-flare activity in PT2-822's sun caused magnetic disturbances in the planet's atmosphere that resulted in atmospheric gases combining into a broad-spectrum aphrodisiac. The periodic stimulation regulated the rutting behavior of every species on the planet: every year, for three local days, for both flora and fauna, sexual activity peaked and reproduction bloomed. Nobody was immune, nobody could resist, and nobody had ever been motivated to develop a drug to counteract the effects. With the exception of a few ascetic cults whose members sweated out the days in a misery of abstinence on religious grounds, and imprisoned criminals whose enforced abstinence was a component of their punishment, every sentient being in every culture on the planet celebrated those three days with a glorious, cheerful frenzy of sexual activity.

For Colonel O'Neill and Doctor Jackson, it was a welcome excuse for doing something they'd longed to do for years and -- prisoners of their positions on SG-1, of Colonel O'Neill's position in the military -- had abstained from, sweating through a misery of shared unconsummatable lust day after day. Here, it was give in to it with each other or sweat it out in unnecessary misery or have sexual relations with the locals. The answer was simple. Not even Doctor Jackson had been able to argue them out of it.

Across the light-years, curtly dismissing his driver, forcing himself to exit the car with casual aplomb instead of in a headlong lunge across the sidewalk to the building entrance, Paul Davis experienced it too.

Davis, who wanted Daniel -- brilliant, dangerous, formidable, gentle, persuasive, equitable, deadly Daniel -- almost as badly as Colonel O'Neill did. Davis, who'd been impaled on a bayonet of delayed-reaction lust for the colonel the moment the foothold situation had ended and he had space to process what he'd ignored during the engagement. Finding himself in O'Neill's head only minutes later hadn't blunted the blade, only twisted it. Finding out what lay on the other side of the handsome, chiseled face, being aware of the shadows and passions inside the virile packaging, made him hungrier for the physical contact he could never have.

The colonel had come to like him, admire him, respect him, trust him -- a combination reserved for a select few. Davis appreciated the significance of having Jack O'Neill's approval. And he knew that the colonel felt flashes of attraction to him. He knew that it had crossed the colonel's mind, more than once. He knew that if they were in different branches of service, if the colonel were still regular Special Forces and not part of the Program, if the risk were less excessive, if they'd run into each other in the right bar in the right city, the colonel would have been more than willing to nail him against a men's-room wall.

He clutched those tiny spikes of potential, those quarter-formed fantasies, to the bosom of his imagination; memories of them fueled most of his masturbation sessions. The cold stained tile, the colonel's vague conception of his ass, of how he'd sound saying "sir, yes sir" when O'Neill asked if he wanted it deeper, "sir yes _sir_" when O'Neill asked if he wanted it harder, how the nape of his neck would prickle under the grip of O'Neill's hand. That was the totality of O'Neill's fantasy about him, as bright and hot and brief as a muzzle flare. Barely noticed by O'Neill himself, in the totality of his sensorium, among all the other thoughts and impressions and sensations, the countless inputs demanding his attention. Just a flash, sometimes, when he saw Davis again or heard his name, or a few minutes or hours afterwards. The _Yeah, I'd hit that_ acknowledgment, there and then gone. Because he never would. And if he did, that was all it would ever be. The fast, dirty fuck just this side of brutal, the eroticizing of subordination, the chilly smeary reeking tile and his slacks not even down as far as his ankles and his pale, prickle-skinned ass tight around the colonel's cock. He wasn't someone the colonel would ever invite home. He wasn't someone the colonel would ever fall in love with. He wouldn't be even if they weren't who they were, doing what they did, and he wouldn't want to be. O'Neill loved his wife -- his ex, he called her aloud when the subject came up, but _wife_ was what rang in his mind across the connection to Davis when he did, _my wife_, re-married now but forever, to him, his wife -- and O'Neill loved Jackson, and that was it. The string of women he'd been with over the years, the men he hadn't, registered no more than Davis did, signified no more than Davis did, not even the village leader on Edora, not even the month-old woman he'd grown old with on Argos. And Davis wasn't in love with O'Neill.

But he wanted him like hell, and half having him, like this ... half having Daniel, like this ... surreptitious and involuntary and _wrong_ ... the elevator felt stifling. The weave of the steel mesh between the faux-rosewood panels made his eyes ache, and he stared at it until his vision blurred and the doors opened.

He lurched down the empty hallway, wrestled with his keys, half stumbled into his apartment, and fell back against the door, slamming it shut with the weight of his body. He was allergic to most sedatives, and if he had any Valium in the place he'd only throw up whatever he swallowed; the only way to knock him out was an injection he'd need a hospital to provide, or a blow to the head that would leave him concussed, too dangerous to do to himself alone in his home. He had a high tolerance for drink, and downing enough alcohol to make himself pass out would take too long and impair him too much in the process. He considered opening the door again and putting his hand on the jamb and slamming the door on it in the hope that intense pain would drown out the signal, but it would be a bitch to explain the injury, or why he'd delayed seeking treatment for so many hours. He was at the mercy of his pager; he couldn't go to silent running without explanation. He'd been an above-and-beyond-the-call officer for so long that he barely knew how to go about slacking off -- claim illness, food poisoning, twenty-four-hour stomach bug? O'Neill's arousal was so intense that he was having trouble thinking clearly. _For the love of **god**, Daniel,_ he thought, _**finish him** and **go to sleep**._

They couldn't hear him. O'Neill couldn't hear him. But directing the thought at them felt profoundly transgressive. Heretical. Insubordinate.

"Goddammit," he breathed, and dropped his keys and flung his coat and cover away and started stripping out of his uniform.

They'd done nothing but have sex and eat and sleep for two days. They'd had plenty of sleep. This act, for O'Neill, was momentous -- letting himself be penetrated, trusting someone to penetrate him. He was as top as they came, and so was Jackson, but this was something they'd chosen to give each other, chosen to try, to see, to find out ... and O'Neill was half out of his mind with the pleasure of it, and Jackson seemed bound and determined to take it as slow as possible and make it last as long he could.

"Goddammit, goddammit, god_dammit_," he chanted, kicking off shoes, tearing out of tie and shirt, fumbling at sticky slacks and shorts with guilty fingers. He was already hard again. He'd already made the decision. He already knew what he was going to do. He'd already bowed to circumstances, chosen to ride it out, make the best of it.

He'd already given in, even though he hadn't yet taken a single step towards the bedroom. His own weakness had already won.

Maybe orgasm would flip the Off switch, short out the circuits. Not a reflex response, not an embarrassing accident in the backseat of a car, not an inadvertent loss of control, but an orgasm consciously willed, voluntarily sought -- manually enabled. He'd been there when O'Neill jerked off, with his customary pragmatic brevity, no fantasies, just his hand and his cock, and he'd never once given in to the urge to join him. When he masturbated to fantasies of O'Neill's conception of him, he did it to memories of what he'd seen, never in real time. Maybe resisting had been a mistake. Maybe he'd been doing the wrong thing for the right reasons all this time. Maybe the dual electrochemical supernovas of simultaneous orgasm would create a power surge on both ends of the line and fry the cable.

Or maybe he was using that vaunted Kennedy School education to manufacture a spectacular rationalization of an unethical act.

It didn't matter. He couldn't think. He could barely move. The thick alien matting on the floor under his cheek and chest felt more real than the recirculated air in his condominium unit, the Kashmiri rug under his bare feet. Vertigo was nearly overwhelming, as he stood up straight and tried to walk while he was lying on his face. He could feel the weight on his back, the pressure in his rectum, the stretch in his anus. He could feel Daniel Jackson's smooth skin rubbing his, Daniel Jackson's fingers threaded through his fingers, Daniel Jackson's cock sliding across his prostate. He half swayed, half minced down the hall, past the bathroom, no point in wiping down, didn't want the tactile trigger of the tile around him, the clash of fantasies intruding on the intrusion of vicarious reality. He groped along the wall, eyes winced nearly shut, looking for the bedroom doorway with his hands, groaning. O'Neill was silent -- infamously silent during sex, aware of it, invested in it in some way that Davis didn't understand, committed to never vocalizing his responses. He could hear O'Neill's harsh breaths echoing in O'Neill's ears, hear the words O'Neill was holding back, **_Daniel, god, Daniel, god, Daniel, god, more_**, and his own whine sounded alien and wrong in the muffling acoustics of his Terran dwelling. He blundered into the bed, kneed onto it, crawled to the middle on all fours; the bouncy mattress felt like a trampoline. He lay down flat to make the nausea subside, and tried to reconcile the enfolding softness of his goose-down comforter with the spongy resistance of the matting under O'Neill.

**_Daniel, please,_** O'Neill begged voicelessly, in both their minds.

The experience had never been this real, this intense, this debilitating. The reception had never been so clear, so unstoppable. Lying prone on his bed, fists clenching the comforter, Davis understood that despite everything O'Neill had been through since this began, despite everything O'Neill had felt and longed for and suffered all these long months, this was the most intensely felt experience he'd had -- so transcendent and so powerful that it would have blasted through any shields Davis tried to put up. The phenomenon had never manifested this strongly before because O'Neill had never felt anything this intensely. Davis was awash in his love, his need, his arousal. He'd known how strongly O'Neill felt about Jackson, but until now he hadn't felt the full force of it, undammed and in full flood.

Dimly, distantly, he wondered if it would drown him. He'd never felt emotion this powerful, didn't know if he was capable of it. Didn't think he wanted to; didn't know how anyone could live with it. Knew, now, that when this was over he'd wish nothing more than that he'd never felt it at all, because his own workaholic, duty-ridden life would seem depressingly bleak by contrast. And knew that if he ever got free of this, which he very possibly never would, he would embrace that life with profound relief, and not the least drop of regret, because no one could live with passion and dedication that intense and ever be completely happy, or completely sane.

He wanted to be sane again someday. He hoped to be happy someday.

**"I know you want to come,"** Jackson said, low and gentle against O'Neill's ear, a soft brush of warm breath that sent chills across Davis's skin. **"It's just, it was kind of intense for me, when I came with you up in me. You might not ... It might be ... "**

**"I'll like it,"** O'Neill said, gruff and a little hoarse, his words buzzing weirdly in Davis's head, resonating in O'Neill's skull. In his mind he was still begging, pleading with Daniel to make him come, an even weirder juxtaposition against the terse flatness of his voice. Did Jackson have any idea? He'd been translating O'Neill for as long as Davis knew him, but knowing better than anyone else what went on behind the facade didn't mean he really _knew_. Even Davis didn't _really_ know, had only pieced together a construct from the glimpses he'd accumulated over time, cross sections assembled into a three-dimensional model. O'Neill's interior was so profoundly different from the exterior he presented ... his exterior was so stealthed, so opaque --

**"I need it this way,"** O'Neill said, closing his hand hard on Jackson's, relishing the long fingers twined with his long fingers, the hard grip around his grip. **_Need you hard, need to come on that,_** he thought, and said, **"Need you hard, need to come on that. Daniel. Please."**

Or, Davis thought, the unthinkable could happen, and O'Neill could _just tell him_. Out loud. In so many words.

O'Neill had never done that with anyone else. The novel forthrightness, unique to his relationship with Jackson, was the last spike through Davis's guilty, lonely heart. He would never tell. He would never risk it. But O'Neill would. O'Neill had.

Jackson started moving, thrusting gently, rocking gradually deeper, and pleasure fractured Davis's analytical capacity. It was O'Neill's cock he'd wanted up his ass; when he hungered for Jackson it was for wine and candlelight in an opulent hotel room and long leisurely hours of fellatio and mutual masturbation, conversation and easygoing sex deep into the night, a private extension of the euphoria of brilliant, instinctive teamwork when they worked together. He wanted to be fucked by O'Neill, not to _be_ O'Neill, and he wanted to be drilled, he wanted that sharp hit on the gland over and over and over again, not the deep sensuous rubbing penetration Jackson was delivering. But Jackson was good -- Jackson was bloody fucking _masterly_ at this, and O'Neill was coming apart even before Jackson hiked him up and reached around for his cock. At the touch of Jackson's fingers, Davis groped for his own cock, close to wailing from the intensity of vicarious sensation as Jackson's assured, experienced hand began working O'Neill's shaft and head. He hiked up his butt and matched Jackson stroke for stroke. Too late he thought to go for the drawer, pull out a plug, but it didn't matter. He felt the fullness of penetration as intensely as if his own ass were filled.

He lost himself in it. Lost himself in Jackson's husky murmured endearments and encouragements, O'Neill's harsh, gasping instructions and pleas, the rocking, straining unison of muscled flesh, damp skin, the rippling cascades of nerve endings firing. The pleasure of his own hand was trebled by the pleasure Jackson's body was giving O'Neill, and as O'Neill neared orgasm it peaked to an unbearable intensity and stayed there so long that he didn't know if he could hold on. Somehow he did, and in those last moments, he heard his own mind's voice like a clear melody threading between their voices and the keening cries in O'Neill's mind.

_Oh, god,_ it said, _oh, god, please let this be the end of it._

When O'Neill came, a blinding explosion of white behind his eyes and an intense spasm of ecstasy in ass and balls and cock and down his legs and arms and up through his heart, Davis gave his cock a vicious twist and came so hard that he blacked out, and his last shred of thought was _Hey, a way I overlooked._

&gt; &gt; &gt; &gt;

When he came around, the clock said 11:46, the dark windows confirmed it as P.M. and not A.M., his head was blessedly, gloriously empty, and his pager was going off.

  


### General Assembly, United Nations, New York

Jack gave Daniel's hair a fond ruffle, an unsubtle and unnecessary reminder not to get a big head from hobnobbing with all these bigwigs, because in a week they were handing it all off to the next batch of poor suckers, and then it was just them and the books and the fish and the sun and the water, and the time to figure out what the hell to do with the rest of their lives. He took half a second to savor Daniel's duck-and-shy-grin -- he really had rocked the house today, and for all the scads and gaggles of suits and uniforms scattering like nattily dressed insects after the close of proceedings, the seamless transitioning of the Stargate Program to a global, public entity owed entirely to him -- and then turned to his own little gaggle of aides.

"You," he said to his administrative assistant, a brilliant, quiet homebody who'd been working round the clock with large groups of people in courageous defiance of her introverted nature, "go back to the hotel and order two of everything on the room-service menu and watch some mindless television and try this new thing called sleep. You" -- to the airmen detailed to fetch-and-carry for him and Daniel -- "go catch up with those SG unit trainees and start working on your hangovers, their first stop was a little dive bar on Eleventh and Avenue A, don't tell them I told you 'cause I'm not supposed to know, take a taxi, save the receipt." Lastly he turned to Colonel Davis, who'd been his right-hand man since he took the job at HS and would have his hands full breaking in the guy who'd be holding his place for him 'til he came into his rightful inheritance, and was, as usual, on the phone -- apparently _still working_, in defiance of Jack's express orders to cease and desist as of five minutes ago. "And you," he said, raising his voice to make sure Davis paid attention to him and not the chatter in his ear, "are hereby -- "

" -- instructed to get a life, yes, sir," Davis said, nodding, and tapped the phone. "On it, sir."

Jack listened to Davis's side of the conversation for one more sentence to satisfy himself that it was at least a personal call if not an intimate one, then waved a loose two-fingered salute and turned back to Daniel, shaking his head.

"I _know_," Daniel said in a tone of over-the-top amazement, as they headed off to find their car, take it to the restaurant, then set the driver free too. "Sometimes you'd swear he's telepathic."

A strikingly buff, good-looking guy in an Italian suit came through the street doors as they went out. Jack felt the same little jolt of _whoa, hot_ go through Daniel that was going through him. Both their heads turned, reflexively, and Jack's hand went up to rest on the nape of Daniel's neck, reflexively.

Before he let go and turned back to the street, he caught a glimpse of Fucking Hot Italian Suit Guy vectoring straight for Davis, and the shining glow of pleasure on Davis's face at the sight of him.

"Well I'll be," he murmured. "Guess he was actually telling the truth."

"What's that?" Daniel said, distractedly, scanning the windows in the curbside row of limos for their car's number.

Over the street noise, Jack said, "Tell you later," and fell into step with him as they spotted their ride.

  


>   
> 
> 
> _Audi, vide, tace, si vis vivere in pace_  
> (Listen, see, be silent, if you would live in peace)
> 
>   
> 

**Author's Note:**

> An in-person threesome-sex fic to make up for the virtuality in this one: [Stirred, Not Shaken](http://archiveofourown.org/works/69436).


End file.
